


Shiver

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M, benedict has an excess of feelings, martin is a happy drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-22
Updated: 2011-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt at sherlockrpf:</p><p>After a night out Benedict and Martin fail to get a taxi back to their respective homes for whatever reason. Benedict offers to walk Martin back home (Lets just say for this, they live quite close to each other?) and it starts raining like there's no tomorrow.</p><p>They both get soaked to the skin and somehow one of them admits their feelings to the other. Epic kissing in the rain ensues followed by possible removal of very soaked clothing? That part is completely up to you!</p><p>Shameless fluff is shameless!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, this is set sometime between series one airing and series two filming, but it's not really that important :) Unbetad, so yell if you see anything.

“There is no way you’re going back on your own.”

“‘m fine.”

“You’re really not. You can barely stand.”

“‘’ll get a f’ckin’ taxi, ‘lright?”

“Martin, we’ve been trying to find one for fifteen minutes. It’s not going to happen.”

Martin frows at him, apparently perplexed by the lack of cabs at three in the morning. Benedict sighs. He’s never seen Martin quite this drunk before.

“Come one, I’ll walk you. It’s not that far, is it?”

Martin shakes his head, then his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Let’s go,” he says enthusiastically, and Christ, he reaches over and picks up Benedict’s hand, striding purposefully down the street. Benedict closes his eyes briefly, memorising the contact, every contour of Martin’s hand. It’s a bad idea, it’s a terrible idea, but it’s late and he’s had two glasses of champagne and he really, really wants to.

When he opens his eyes, he sighs again, and pulls Martin to a halt.

“Wrong direction.”

*

The walk isn’t far, twenty five minutes at a leisurely pace. The night is warm; the sky has been thunderous all day and the air holds the tension that promises a storm later. They don’t talk much--Martin occasionally makes a complete non sequitur of a remark, which is still somehow witty and funny, and Benedict replies with a hum or a chuckle. He tries not to think about the fact that he’s walking through central London holding hands with Martin (Martin’s fingers are holding his in a grip like a vice, and Benedict’s not about to prise them free, if only because he’s half afraid Martin will simply fall over if he does) or about the other things he’d like to do with Martin’s hands.

It’s stupid, how long he’s felt this, but telling himself so has not made him want to drag Martin into dark corners and kiss him senseless.

He _knows_ nothing can happen, he knows all the reasons it’s a bad idea, all the reasons Martin doesn’t feel the same way. His mind just can’t get his heart to cooperate.

Martin stops suddenly, pulling Benedict up short. He looks to the sky, laughs, and the heavens open.

The rain is as heavy as it is sudden, and they’re both soaked through in seconds. And yet, rather than moving, rather than running as fast as he can in the direction of Martin’s flat, he’s standing stock still on the street, staring.

Martin’s face is upturned, his fingers still tangled with Benedict’s, and he’s smiling. It’s not the vague, unfocused smile of someone too drunk to be anything _but_ horribly cheery or depressingly morose, but Martin’s real one, the one Benedict’s seen enough to have it’s every curve and dimple memorised, the one that comes from soul-deep joy. Benedict wonders what that smile would taste like.

Martin turns to him, and the moment breaks.

“Come on,” Benedict says, his breath still coming too fast, “let’s keep going. We’re already soaked, nothing worse can happen.”

Martin just nods and starts walking again. They still don’t speak, and their hands are still clasped.

*

Benedict stares.

“You don’t have your keys?” he says, disbelieving. They’re huddled together on the tiny doorstep, just out of the rain, although it’s still splashing at their feet. It’s far too close; he can smell Martin’s shampoo and the alcohol on his breath and he’s only have to step half an inch to the left and they’d be entirely pressed together.

 _Unhelpful_ , he tells himself.

Martin glares at him and pats all his pockets down again, finally unzipping his jacket and taking it off to search it properly. The combination of the rain and frustration has sobered him up considerably. His eyes have lost their slightly glassy sheen and his motions are sharper, more decisive.

“Fucking fuck fuck,” Martin announces, finally conceding the loss of his keys.

“Have you got a spare set somewhere? Doesn’t everyone?” Benedict asks. Martin glares at him again.

“No” he replies, and he has the gall to look like this is somehow Benedict’s fault. “Where the fuck can they be?”

“Well, you were pretty drunk,” Benedict suggests. “You could have dropped them or left them somewhere?”

Martin leans his head against his front door and groans. It shouldn’t be adorable, but it is. Benedict makes an impulsive, and quite possibly stupid decision.

“C’mon,” he says, “you can stay at mine.”

*

They end up walking again, which is bloody ridiculous. After nearly ten minutes trying to get a cab, Martin announces that he quite fancies a walk, and it’s not really that far, is it?

And, well, they are both already soaked through, and even though he will never admit it aloud, Benedict is quite fond of the idea of wandering the streets with Martin in the rain. The traitorous part of his brain whispers that it’s romantic, and he wishes Martin was still plastered enough to take his hand again.

They don’t talk, it’s hard to over the rain, but Benedict can’t help stealing glances at Martin, wondering what he’s thinking about. The thought of Martin staying at his place opens up all kinds of delicious and completely out-of-bounds ideas, and he thinks ruefully that Martin would not have been quite so keen to accept if he’d had the faintest inkling of them.

His flat is more or less in sight when it happens. Against all likelihood, even though there’s no way he’s still drunk enough for this to be excusable, Martin reaches across and picks up his hand, lacing their fingers together. The surprise of it is enough to stop Benedict in his tracks, but all he can think about is how solid and warm Martin’s hand is, despite the rain.

Martin pulls up as well, and turns to look at him. Benedict imagines he can see a tiny bit of hesitation in his movements. He stares down at their joined hands, and it must be some witching combination of the rain and the champagne and the sensation of skin on skin, but he can’t _think_.

“Martin?” he says, his voice embarrassingly unsteady, and if everything he’s done up until now hasn’t given him away, there’s no way Martin’s missed the tiny, plaintive note in his voice.

“Look,” Martin says, and he steps closer, right into Benedict’s personal space. “I don't know if you're aware, but you’ve been doing this... _thing_ all evening." He waves his hand vaguely, and Benedict wonders if maybe he isn't quite as sober as he'd thought.

"Oh don't look at me like that, I'm not drunk anymore." Martin looks amused. "Not very, anyway."

"Thing?" Benedict prompts, feeling they've gotten off the subject and quite keen to get back on it, unable to suppress the tiny bloom of hope in the pit of his stomach.

Martin sighs.

"That thing you do when you are just stupidly _nice_ , and you won’t stop smiling, and you go out of your way to just be really fucking sweet.” Benedict’s eyes widen, although he immediately has to squint them against the rain.

“And so maybe I had a little to much to drink, because otherwise it’s hard to stop thinking about all the entirely inappropriate things that ridiculous smile of yours makes me want,” Martin continues, and his voice is so matter-of-fact that it takes Benedict a moment to process what he’s said.

“Wha-” he splutters, but Martin interrupts.

“Still talking. And then you just had to be the perfect gentleman and walk me home, like I’m a fucking damsel in distress. Christ Ben, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? And then, and _then_ , you invite me to stay over at yours. And you _won’t stop looking at me_.” Martin’s last words sound faintly accusing, and Benedict would protest, except that it’s bloody true and he knows it.

Martin smiles, stepping even closer.

“I didn’t think it was quite fair for you to have me over without you knowing exactly what I want to do to you.”

Benedict’s mouth falls open just a little further, and Martin doesn’t hesitate to take advantage of his stunned silence. Martin’s soaked sleeves wrap around his waist, and Martin stands straighter, his face tilted upwards. But it isn’t until Martin’s lips brush his that he finally, actually believes this is happening. He grabs at Martin’s lapels and pulls him even closer, closes his eyes and kisses him back.

It’s utterly ridiculous, the two of them standing on the street in the rain at half past three in the morning. It’s like a scene out of some horrible romantic comedy, but Benedict honestly can’t find it in himself to complain. Not when the inside of Martin’s mouth is a deliciously hot contrast to his cold skin, and Martin’s fingers are digging into his sides. Not when his own hand is buried in the wet hair at Martin’s neck, tilting his head to just the right angle to slid his tongue into his mouth.

They break apart, gasping for breath, and Martin starts to laugh. He presses his forehead into Benedict’s shoulder to stifle the sound, and the wave of affection and something slightly more raw-edged that washes over him almost knocks him off his feet.

“You are ridiculous,” he tells Martin, who only laughs harder in return. “Now stop that, I need to kiss you again.”

Martin doesn’t stop, but Benedict kisses him anyway. It’s a little faster this time, needier, and before he can quite catch hold of himself, he has his hands on Martin’s arse and Martin’s tiny growl of approval makes him shiver. Martin’s hands leave his waist and one cups his jaw, fruitlessly brushing away the raindrops falling on his cheeks. Martin slings his other arm around Benedict’s neck and pulls him down further, the new angle allowing him to take control of the kiss and _fucking hell_ Benedict needs to get Martin inside his flat as soon as humanly possible.

"Stop, stop," he says the next time his lips are available, although his hands, now clutching at Martin's shoulders, are sending quite a different message.

"What?" Martin pays no attention to his words, nipping at Benedict's upper lip.

Benedict groans and kisses him again, drawing Martin's lower lip between his own and sucking gently, before pushing him away slightly.

"Inside, now, my flat's only two minutes away."

Martin steps back and Benedict is instantly freezing, his wet clothes clinging to him and now exposed to the cool air without Martin pressed along his front.

"You," Martin announces, "are a genius."

Benedict snorts, but before he can reply, Martin is tugging him forward by the hand.There's an urgency to their movements now, a sense of purpose and simmering desire. Benedict's mind is absolutely spinning with whirling images of exactly what he wants to do the moment his front door is closed, what he's wanted for _months_ but never allowed himself to think about. Months...

He stops again, pulling Martin to a halt with him.

"How long?" he asks, even as Martin starts to ask him what's wrong. "How long have you..." He shrugs, but the implication is clear.

"Jesus, Ben, can we not talk about this inside? I'm freezing my fucking arse off here, and I had hoped to put it to better use before the night was out."

Martin leers at him so blatantly that Benedict laughs, even as the words send a shock of arousal through him.

"Oh, come on then."

And five minutes later, when Martin pushes him up against his front door and whispers "from the beginning," Benedict can only draw him closer and kiss him until they're both breathless with it.


End file.
